


Esteemed Guest

by Rinna



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Claude von Riegan Needs a Hug, Host Clubs, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28391136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinna/pseuds/Rinna
Summary: There’s nothing that marks him quite as much as the jewellery he’s received fromhim– his number one patron, the person whose outrageous spending made it possible for Lorenz to become Crimson Flower’s top host for over a year running, as much as it grates on him. King Khalid the First.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's been over a year but neither does my love for FE3H abate nor does this idea go away - time to do something about it!  
> I'm going to kindly ask you to suspend your disbelief about Dedue working in an estaboishment helmed by Edelgard, because I love him and want him in my fic. The rating will eventually go up, but I will let you know beforehand. Enjoy!

Lorenz can hear Ferdinand before the other man slams the door to the dressing room wide open, bundling up the stairs, taking two steps like an overexcited child. At the sight of him, Lorenz can only raise an unimpressed eyebrow in his direction before the hairdresser tells him to keep his head still.

“You’re still not done?” Ferdinand asks. Everything about him is loud today, as usual – clad from head to toe in a fiery red suit, uncaring of how it might clash with his orange mane of hair, his voice and gestures as boisterous as always.

“As you can see,” Lorenz replies evenly, watching his hairdresser in the mirror to see him check the secure fit of each of the tiny gold rhinestone flowers braided into his ponytail for the day.

“Come on, you’re going to be late for the sermon,” his colleague says, before looking him up and down. Lorenz is wearing a crisp black shirt with gold accents on the lapels, tucked into a dark, sweeping skirt brushing his ankles. Even his shoes have outrageous gold tips.

“My, you really always go all out, don’t you,” Ferdinand says, impressed. Lorenz can’t help it – he preens. He got into this job as host at the Crimson Flower to be looked at, to use his talents at conversation and, yes, to spite his dreadfully pompous father who would see him as the CEO of a bank or some such, anything to drain him of both spirit and passion. For even a coworker like Ferdinand to look at him and tell him without so many words that he has the ability to draw eyes to himself is simply invigorating.

Of course Ferdinand is also incorrigibly nosy, and so he spots the single diamond at Lorenz’s left ear and the matching glint at his index finger.

“You’re wearing your gifts today,” he says. “Does that mean--”

“Yes, yes,” Lorenz interrupts hm, waving a hand dismissively, “He’s coming in later.”

While they are by far not the only gifts Lorenz has ever received from patrons, there’s nothing that marks him quite as much as the jewellery he’s received from him – his number one patron, the person whose outrageous spending made it possible for Lorenz to become Crimson Flower’s top host for over a year running, as much as it grates on him. King Khalid the First.

Perhaps it wouldn’t sting quite so much if his most esteemed patron wouldn’t also be his most difficult – Lorenz would never have expected his king to be a carefree flirt, quick with empty praise yet happy to make Lorenz work hard for every scrap of small talk about the things everyone else who visits the Crimson Flower likes to talk about, idle distractions such as fine arts or celebrity gossip.

Instead, the king wants to talk about politics and business, the subjects he already spends all of his waking hours on. This requires Lorenz to put in hours of preparation, only for each conversation to feel like sparring, fierce discussions on the very topics he sought to get away from by becoming a host.

Alas, a host’s only task is to entertain their guest in any manner required, and Lorenz isn’t going to protest if quizzing him on politics is the preferred hobby of his highness King Khalid The XIII, Claude to “friends”. After all, it does pay his bills.

The jewellery though, it marks him, in a way he’s not comfortable with. He didn’t take the pieces in for estimation, as sourcing their origin could have implied the king, and discretion is of the utmost importance when dealing with one of the highest-ranking nobles’ secret passion for host clubs. Yet Lorenz knows they’re worth more than anything else he owns, likely combined, and his other patrons must know, too. Wearing the diamonds in front of them is like telling them they could never afford Lorenz, and it puts a distance between him and his admirers, makes him feel spoken for when he’s anything but. Manager von Vestra insists on it though, insists Lorenz wears the diamonds on all days the king has announced his intention to visit.

“Let’s go,” he tells Ferdinand, giving his hair another quick look. “And stop calling it a sermon.” Ferdinand grins at him. “But the manager is wearing his dark cloak today. You know, the one that makes him look like a priest.” Lorenz huffs in amusement. “A dark priest, maybe,” he drawls, then tips the hairdresser with a few bills from his skirt pocket and follows Ferdinand out the door.

What Ferdinand likes to call a sermon is a daily pep talk, delivered in Manager von Vestra’s droning voice. Lorenz is always mildly fascinated at how a man as drab as him ended up managing one of the most popular host clubs in the city, but rumour has it von Vestra has been instrumental in the rise of the most popular hostess of all time, Edelgard Hresvelg, the original Crimson Flower, a legend among legends, now the club’s sole owner and happily married besides.

Hubert von Vestra’s main passion seems to be playing by the rules, seeing as he mentions them daily, and looking at him, you wouldn’t want to find out what happens should you ever cross the line. He doesn’t seem to have any ambitions other than making the club money, which suits Lorenz just fine. He isn’t here to participate in any of the drama the other hosts like to start, he just wants to make his money and go home. He’s well aware some call him stuck-up and haughty for simply minding his own business.

The sounds of bickering become audible even as Lorenz and Ferdinand descend the stairs to the main hall. For all that it’s supposed to be luxurious and distinguished, the atmosphere in the Crimson Flower ahead of opening time is that of a kindergarten during recess, mostly thanks to Sylvain. The same holds true today.

“Leave it, you oaf!” Felix is yelling at Sylvain, who nevertheless makes another grab for Felix’s skinny tie, swearing up and down it’s crooked. Dedue, as usual, is already at the bar, silently polishing glasses and taking stock of the available drinks while Ashe watches him from a barstool nearby, his tie definitely crooked. It’s part of his charm, Edelgard probably hired him because a lot of patrons like a quiet, shy host with an impressive blush. Ashe is also great at listening to patrons and making them feel better, the sort of emotional effort Lorenz doesn’t always have the patience for. Sylvain is charming in a slick, cheerful kind of way, and he sells the most drinks because he has the highest alcohol tolerance of all of them. By contrast Felix, his best friend since kindergarten, is the host of choice for people who like to be talked down to. Felix gets scolded by Manager von Vestra a lot, mainly because his air of disinterest is genuine, and no one is quite sure why he’s working at the Crimson Flower to begin with.

Of course, Lorenz isn’t intimately aware of each of his colleagues’ reasons to do this job to begin with. He doesn’t need to be. He’s pretty sure Sylvain just does it because he’s good at it and being good at this sort of thing tends to pay really, really well. Everyone knows Ashe’s story, mostly because he seems so out of place at the Crimson Flower that they couldn’t help asking him about it. An orphan, Ashe is now the sole head of a household of three, and he dropped out of school and into host club life to fund his siblings’ education, a situation so clichéd yet so tragic no one who heard about it doubted him for a second.

As usual, Caspar is the last one to race through the doors. Everyone has gathered, and as if on cue, Manager von Vestra appears from behind the velvety curtain that leads to back office. Lorenz knows the curtain is there for aesthetic reasons, but whenever Hubert sways through it, he feels himself reminded of a particularly stone-faced magician.

“Good evening.” He meets everyone’s eyes for a moment, unable to hide a sneer at Ferdinand’s eye-popping outfit. This too, is customary – they will argue about it later, and absolutely nothing will change. The Crimson Flower is a small club, just the seven of them and their manager. It’s supposed to be a sign of quality – if you want loud music and a throng of hosts cheering you on during drinking contests, you can go literally anywhere else. At the Crimson Flower, you get enriching conversation with people you feel like you actually know. But that means that no matter how much the hosts may bicker and scoff at each other occasionally, they depend on each other – the Crimson Flower couldn’t do without Caspar cheerfully escorting drunk guests out before things can get rowdy, or Ferdinand’s ability to be enthusiastic about even the most boring patron’s story. They have their rules and habits, and somehow, things just work.

“Today I come bearing the unfortunate news that Mr. Blaiddyd made true on his threat to open an all-female competitor to the Crimson Flower. He’s opened the “Holy Kingdom”, a clear sign of direct competition.”

Lorenz isn’t sure how an all-female host club can he called direct competition, but when it comes to the half-siblings Dimitri and Edelgard, everything is competition.

“I will have none of you scoping out the place,” von Vestra continues, glancing at Caspar and Sylvain in particular. Lorenz can feel them making plans to disobey as soon as the words leave their manager’s mouth. Hubert goes on – there is to be no fraternising with the competing hostesses, no speculation about their business practices, no asking guests about it… Lorenz’s thoughts drift away with his interest. He idly thinks about whether Claude—that is, King Khalid, would be interested in visiting the Holy Kingdom. His sexual orientation of “everything that moves” certainly wouldn’t preclude it, Lorenz thinks, before cutting the thought off when he notices himself making a face. It’s none of his business what the most eligible bachelor in all the land does in his free time, or with whom. Lorenz has customers to take care of.

As an upstanding establishment, the Crimson Flower has clear rules about touching. They’re much needed in a club where flirtatious quips delivered in low voices meet substantial alcohol consumption, and almost every guest has tried their luck at getting a host to put out, right in the booth. Even Dedue hasn’t been spared. Technically hosts can take it as far as they want to at their own discretion, just not within the walls of the club – it doesn’t go with the atmosphere Edelgard wants them to create, and no one wants to do that sort of cleanup. There’s an understanding that anticipation and the suggestion it might at one point happen are what keep guests around, and so most of them know where to draw the line. This day seems to be turning into a special sort of day, however. Lorenz is just about to return to his second customer of the night, a sweet, soft-spoken woman who doesn’t seem to enjoy alcohol but always makes a point to order some to support him, when Hubert sidles up to him, pressing a small key into his hands and inclining his head towards Ashe without another word.

The key is for the upstairs room. Getting one of the hosts all to yourself is a privilege that comes attached with a hefty price tag, and few are actually willing or able to pay it. Lorenz assumes that in part their unwillingness makes sense, when upstairs the same rules apply as downstairs, despite the added privacy. To keep guests in line, and hosts safe, the upstairs area also has a prominently visible security camera, more visible in many ways than the ones downstairs. All in all, it’s a bit of a turn-off.

Everyone at the Crimson Flower has become adept at nonverbal communication, and as such Lorenz knows there’s a reason he’s to deliver the key to Ashe instead of Hubert – he can make sure at a glance that in his eagerness to make more money, Ashe didn’t let himself be coerced into accepting an invitation upstairs.

Ashe isn’t stupid, but he can get desperate, and so Lorenz does as he’s told. Alas, when he arrives as his colleagues’ booth, it’s easy to see what kind of situation he’s facing. Ashe’s smile at seeing him is brittle, and his patron, a man Lorenz doesn’t recognise, has his hand halfway up his thigh already. Lorenz turns around without announcing himself, briefly goes back to the table to apologise to his own guest and then goes to the bar to pour a drink. Dedue is already there, entertaining in his function as sort of a cross of bartender and host, a position that exists solely for him because it suits him better to have something to do with his hands than to stiffly sit in a booth. His eyes are on Ashe’s booth, likely more than is appropriate for someone with his own guest to take care of. He’s not an expressive person by far, but something about him relaxes when Lorenz shows him the key followed by the drink, another instance of effortless nonverbal communication.

Lorenz then goes over to set the drink down in front of Ashe’s customer, effectively interrupting his hand’s quest up his thigh and his lips making their way up Ashe’s collar. Killing the mood, swiftly and without mercy. “I’m so sorry, Sir,” Lorenz begins, “But management has requested me to tell you that unfortunately my guest has prebooked the upstairs room you wanted to use.”

This is only half a lie – Claude does need the upstairs room in order to be able to visit anonymously, and he does usually book a time well in advance of his actual arrival, just, Lorenz suspects, to make a point. However, Claude’s booking isn’t due for a couple more hours. Ashe’s guest stops what he’s doing and turns to face Lorenz, immediately irritated. “Please,” Lorenz tells him, “Accept a drink on the house and our sincerest apologies.” It’s all that this particular person is owed – he’s a new patron, and he’s made the one drink he ordered last. Of course he is also the kind of person who immediately decides to make a scene.

“What happened to ‘the customer is king’?” he snarls, getting up from his seat and drawing himself up to his full height, which doesn’t actually have the intimidating effect he was aiming for – Lorenz is incredibly tall, even taller in heels, only surpassed by Dedue. “I was prepared to spend a lot of money on this club and this is how you treat me?” the patron goes on. Lorenz stays silent, keeping his face neutral. “Fuck,” he man says, slamming his fist on the table loudly enough for conversation to cease around him, “your paltry drink.” He then swipes the glass of the tabletop, and it shatters and spills its contents several steps away. “I guess I have to take what I booked the room for right here then,” he says and grabs Ashe by the neck. Several pairs of eyes are on them as the man roughly draws Ashe in for a kiss. Before Lorenz can react, Dedue has made his way around the bar. Ashe makes a noise of protest and shoves at his guest, and in that quick moment Lorenz puts himself between the two. Dedue meanwhile is wasting no time at all. “Thank you for your patronage,” he grunts, before bodily picking the man up and unceremoniously carrying him outside, ignoring his shouted protests and ineffective wiggling.

After everyone is satisfied that the spectacle is over, conversation resumes around them. Lorenz brings Ashe a glass of water, who drinks it before furiously wiping his lips down with a napkin. “You didn’t have to do that,” Ashe says without looking at him, his voice as quiet and even as always. Lorenz opens his mouth to say it was nothing, that they watch out for each other, but when their eyes meet, he’s stunned to realise Ashe is furious. “You didn’t have to rub in the fact that the king booked the room. You could’ve let me have this. You know I need customers like this.” Lorenz is silent for a while before responding. “No one needs customers like this,” he says, then walks away.

Claude arrives the way he always does, in a sleek black car that pulls up to the Crimson Flower’s back entrance. For each visit, one of his security staff will open the car door for him, before two of them post themselves at each side of the club’s back door. Lorenz is convinced Claude has to wear some sort of microphone for them to just calmly leave him out of their sight, but he absolutely doesn’t want to know for certain. On this day, too, Claude thanks them with a brilliant smile, reconfirms the time they can expect him back, and then saunters inside to join Lorenz. He looks at the other man for a while, smile firmly in place, before he comes closer, drawing Lorenz in the rest of the way with the hand on the small of his back until their bodies almost touch. “Absolutely gorgeous,” Clause whispers into his ear, and Lorenz, damn him, can’t suppress a shiver. Usually Claude’s flirting is all innuendo and throwaway compliments – they’re both aware who has the most power in their relationship, and so the king doesn’t bother being overly affectionate. Lorenz doesn’t know why Claude comes to visit, but it’s not to win him over, he’s not so naïve not to know that keeping themselves unattainable is a host’s job. Yet sometimes, out of the blue, Claude will be intense with Lorenz like this, the same way he was when he gave him the jewellery, and Lorenz will feel like he’s been beaten at his own game. Just like now.

“Come on, there’s no need for this,” he mumbles and puts some distance between them again, the colour rising high on his cheeks. “Your security detail, they don’t need to see you behave like…”

“Like what?” Clause asks, the teasing grin back on his face. Lorenz scowls at him, before throwing his braided purple mane over one shoulder and leading the way upstairs. When he unlocks the door, Ashe’s words from earlier come to his mind. He’s aware that anyone in their right mind would love to have King Khalid frequenting their business, but he’s never thought about it as more than an inconvenience – the extra security detail, the sneaking in through the back door, the political sparring they do. Lorenz realises with a start he’s never really thought of Claude as the king, not when they’re alone together.

Claude drapes himself lazily over the sofa, not an ounce of regal rigour in his posture. “The usual?” Lorenz asks him. “Sure,” Claude replies, and Lorenz pours him a scotch from the minibar in the corner. Despite the fact they have music, the upstairs room can feel eerily quiet, far removed from the hustle and bustle downstairs. Lorenz fights off the initial awkwardness he feels every time.

“So what brings you here, this time? I couldn’t help but notice that you don’t seem to have been scheduled for a public appearance in town that would have led you my way,” he opens.

“I came to see you,” Claude replies easily. “Perhaps you misunderstand – when I asked what brought you here I wasn’t referring to the club, I know you make a habit of visiting after engagements in town. I wanted to know what business led you to make your way over. Of course if it’s a secret matter you can’t discuss, then—”

“I came to see you,” Claude repeats, and suddenly, his meaning clicks for Lorenz.

“With all due respect, your Majesty, you’ve got to be kidding.” Claude openly laughs at the befuddled look Lorenz gives him. “You live near the Almyran border, that’s… almost 300 miles away. And you what, just thought you’d visit?”

Claude shrugs good-naturedly, which is enough of an answer. “I felt like asking your opinion on the peace treaty.”

Lorenz sighs. “Well, the greatest hurdle is going to be Her Holiness Rhea the III’s opposition, isn’t it? She thinks the religious incompatibility between our peoples and that of Almyra is inevitably going to lead to another war.”

Claude tuts, his smile unmoving. “I was asking for _your_ opinion, though, wasn’t I?” Lorenz sighs again. The king always maintains an air of nonchalance whenever he asks his opinion on political matters, but while Lorenz doesn’t want to sell himself short, he doesn’t think a nightclub host should opine about foreign affairs. He started at the Crimson Flower to do something that suited him, but was essentially undemanding work – what Claude is asking of him is anything but. It’s terrifying to think the king would act on anything Lorenz told him.

“I think,” he says haltingly, “That you’re never going to know how the Almyrans act unless you give them a chance. We’ve been punishing them with punitive tariffs for years and now act surprised at their animosity. If you want this to work, you have to take the first step, especially considering your family steadfastly ignored their Almyran roots for so long. Even then, people might simply think it’s lip service, but simply doing nothing seems…untenable.”

Claude stays silent. When Lorenz glances at him, fearful of having said something wrong in the way he only ever is in these conversations, not that he would admit that, Claude looks thoughtful.

“I had a choice, you know,” he says quietly. “Stay here or rescind my claim to the throne and live a comfortable life in Almyra. It was never a question for me. I wanted to see what I could accomplish, what I could do for people. But when it comes down to it, I can’t my mind up to commit to something that may bring about real change.”

Claude is still smiling ever so slightly, but it seems bitter to Lorenz. Bitter, and heartwrenchingly sad. “You on the other hand just gave me your answer without hesitation.” He gulps his drink down. Lorenz moves to refill it, but the king snatches his wrist, making him sit back down. “Why are you here?” Claude asks, his tone tinged with a weird sort of desperation Lorenz can’t seem to place.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he answers softly, trying to keep his tone light, “But the most likely answer is because it’s what I do – I keep those company who benefit from it. It’s my job.”

“Your job, of course,” Claude echoes, and Lorenz can’t help but think he’s said something wrong. “That means you’ll go anywhere I ask you to, as long as I pay you, right?” Lorenz frowns. “Absolutely not.” He feels the king’s fingers dance from his wrist to his knuckles in a soft caress. He chalks it up to the weird mood – usually they hardly touch. “I won’t debase myself for money, I still have my pride.”

Claude giggles at him, actually giggles, and the weird tension between them dispels. “You would say no to your king? How brave of you,” he teases. Lorenz harrumphs, but it’s mostly for show. “You swore an oath to your people. Technically you should be doing whatever I tell you to, not the other way around. “Oh trust me,” Claude says, his smile turning wicked, “I intend to.”

They spend the rest of the evening making small talk, and Claude makes no further weird overtures Lorenz can’t parse, and it’s just…pleasant. Yet when the king gets back into his car several hours later, Lorenz, watching him go from the club’s backdoor, his arms folded around himself, for some reason has to sigh.

“Had a good time?” Ferdinand asks from somewhere behind him. His tone is somewhat leery, but the strong smell of alcohol wafting from him might explain that. “You certainly did,” Lorenz quips back. Ferdinand is grinning when Lorenz turns to him, but his grin falters when he takes his colleague in.

“You’re sad,” he says, and it isn’t a question. “You know, I’ve never wasted much thought on why King Khalid the First might be visiting a host club. I just thought it’s one of those hobbies people develop when they have too much money,” Lorenz says slowly. “I think it’s a lot simpler than that…I think King Khalid the First is actually unbearably lonely.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Thank you to all of you who have left kudos, the comments I've received made me especially happy (^///.///^) I hope you enjoy this one, too.

Lorenz is usually one of the first to arrive at the Crimson Flower. His hairdos take time, and when they don’t, it’s mere habit. He won’t admit he get lonely in his apartment by himself, but he likes the way the club slowly fills up, people greeting each other, exchanging stories if one of them was lucky enough to get a day off.

Today Lorenz is so early that the only person he immediately claps eyes on is Dedue, who generally isn’t much for conversation, and while there is a trail of cologne signalling Ferdinand’s presence, he’s nowhere to be found. Lorenz takes a book out of his leather bag, ready to pass the time until opening reading and maybe giving his hair another brush, when Dedue waves him over.

“You didn’t have to,” he says. When Lorenz looks at him in askance, he pauses – always taking the time to choose his words carefully – then says: “You made Ashe think it was your decision to not let him have the upstairs room.” “Ah, so he talked to you about that.” Lorenz presses his lips together to a thin line and shrugs.

“Honestly, isn’t it better this way? Better for him to be annoyed with me than to know Hubert didn’t trust him with a customer. I can take it.”  
  
“You actually care,” Dedue says somewhat dumbly, and Lorenz grins wistfully.

“Just don’t tell anyone,” he says, then gives Dedue’s shoulder a friendly pat and returns to his book. Just when he is about to settle into one of the main room couches, he hears shouting from the back office.

“Why must you always be this insufferable?!”  
“Watch how you speak to me if you want to keep your job!”  
Ferdinand and Hubert, as always.

“It’s been like this on and off ever since I’ve arrived,” Dedue says.  
“It’s been like this on and off since I’ve started working here,” Lorenz drawls.

“They always make up though,” Dedue says.  
“Don’t you mean ‘they always stop shouting at each other eventually’?”  
  
Dedue is smiling in that knowing way of his, but before he can elaborate, Ferdinand comes storming out the office, resplendent in a grey cashmere sweater and slacks, his hair in a ponytail. “That infuriating man!” he grouses, “Completely, completely, _completely_ maddening!”

“What did you argue about?” Lorenz asks calmly, and Ferdinand turns to him as if he’s only then noticing his presence. “Lorenz! Listen, you have to go to the Holy Kingdom with me.”

Lorenz grimaces. “Why would I go there? Take Sylvain with you, he’s probably dying to go.”  
“That’s why I can’t take him! He just wants to go there to have fun. I on the other hand need a partner for my very important spy work.”

Lorenz sighs but indulges him. “Spy work?” he asks, as much of an invitation for Ferdinand to continue as he can muster.

“This is probably a club with a similar concept to our, right? Hubert always used to say that the only thing Dimitri Blaiddyd was good for was copying Edelgard’s business ventures – like when he became a model or when he endorsed the same skincare brand as her. Look, nothing against the Crimson Flower, but maybe we could actually learn something from this new hostess club? We only have Hubert’s word to believe everything Edelgard starts does actually turn out better than whatever her brother does.”

“Let me guess – you told Hubert that just now and his reaction was less than positive.”

Ferdinand has the grace to look a little flustered. “You know I only have the club’s best interests at heart!”

Lorenz gives him a look of fond exasperation in turn. “I do, actually. Okay, okay…I guess we’re doing this.” Ferdinand’s smile brimming with unbridled joy is immediately worth it.

That evening, Lorenz entertains a customer who’s always very keen on discussing the latest developments concerning the crown with him. Lorenz doesn’t really understand royalists and what they get out of speculating about the king’s private business, then again it’s not that different from regular celebrity gossip. Lorenz’s “interest” in Claude’s political decision-making makes him a good conversation partner for people who like to think he’s smart and has good insight, because he is and he… does, though of course he can’t let anyone know where that uncanny insight comes from.

“The king said in a press conference that on the matter of the peace treaty, he’s seeking the advice from ‘a close friend beyond compare’, did you know that?” his guest asks. Lorenz nearly spills his drink. “Oh my, I had no idea,” he chokes. Well, he thinks to himself, at least Claude’s still thinking on it and hasn’t announced his decision to start peace talks outright.

“Talks of such a nature are a fragile thing,” he says, somewhat airily, glancing at Ashe out of the corner of his eye, who’s laughing heartily with three female guests. “It’s difficult to find solutions that benefit everyone equally.”

The thing is, and in his own head he can be honest about the fission of delight he feels at the king thinking his advice over, is that Lorenz hopes to be useful. Being useful can mean sending someone home with the memory of a pleasant evening, but all of them do that. Ashe, and even Ferdinand want, need something more out of this, and it makes him feel somewhat… inadequate. Strangely jealous of those with a higher purpose.

That night, Lorenz starts to feel cooped up in their little club devoid of windows, and goes out the back door for some fresh air and a view of the overcast sky. Felix is already there, smoking a cigarette and looking at his phone.

“You waiting for someone?” he asks, barely looking up. It takes Lorenz a second to get who Felix is referring to, then he shakes his head. “No,” he says when he realises Felix isn’t looking.

“Let’s find a day all of us are free,” Felix says in that monotone voice of his. “You, Ferdinand, the idiot and I.”

“Huh?”

“The club. I’m going there with you.”

“Don’t be—We can’t _all_ go, that’s too many of us,” Lorenz protests. “Why would you even go?”

“Sylvain is not going to that club without me,” Felix says, as if that explains matters.

Lorenz doesn’t respond anything, which seems to be enough to make Felix angry.

“I don’t know if any of you get this, okay,” he says, his voice rising in volume, “But he’s trying to make friends. He’s trying too fucking hard to make friends. He’s too naïve and too nice not to be taken advantage of. He will ruin himself. Not under my watch.”

“I honestly had no idea,” Lorenz says haltingly. He really hadn’t, none of these things sounded like Sylvain – but Felix looked intense enough that he didn’t want to ask for clarification, either. But all but closing the club down was impossible, unless—

“Ok, we’ll go together,” Lorenz says, “Leave it to me.”

This is how Lorenz ends up detailing his plan to Dedue, one of the only two sane men working at the Crimson Flower, and thus also one of the only two people their manager wouldn’t suspect of hatching a plan to give everyone a day off.

“You will have to repeat that for me,” he says slowly, “and let me smell your breath so that I know if alcohol is to blame for this idea.”

“Look,” Lorenz says, “I only know about those plastic cockroaches because Caspar made an ill-conceived suggestion for club Halloween decorations last year, I promise you. It was spectacular, Manager von Vestra turned so pale we were really quite worried about him—”

“What you are saying,” Dedue interrupts him, his deep voice naturally commanding attention, “Is that you want me to hide plastic cockroaches in our storage room, trust our manager will not come close enough to inspect them, and then cost all of us money because we will have to be closed down for fumigation.”

“I—yes. He won’t blame you, all of us are in and out of that room, and it could do with a bit of a clean, as the manager himself has pointed out, it’s his own fault for not letting the cleaning company in there because he’s worried they’ll steal something. I will make it up to you! I don’t know how yet, but—”

“We have to close on a day Ashe is already off,” Dedue cuts in. “That is my condition.” Lorenz snaps his mouth shut.

“Dedue,” he tries awkwardly after a moment of complete silence, “If you ever want to talk about—”

“I will let you know the day,” Dedue says curtly, and just like that, their conversation is over.

A discreetly purchased pack of squishy fake cockroaches later, Lorenz arrives at work to a high-pitched “hiiii” noise he would never have thought Hubert capable of making, and Ferdinand’s eyes lighting up like those of a kid on Christmas morning.

“Why are _all_ of us here?” Lorenz sighs, looking between his colleagues, their faces illuminated by The Holy Kingdom’s flashing purple neon sign. It’s an impressive building from the outside, and they all take a moment to just stare at it.

Everyone dressed down, which makes Lorenz feel as if they’re on a school trip wearing their comfortable day clothes. Ashe, who came all the way into town by train, is even drinking from a thermos.

“Hell yeah, let’s do this!” Caspar shouts, raising his fist into the air. As if on cue, a somewhat homely-looking woman with round features ad a big blonde mane of hair appears. “Gentlemen, good evening!” she says in a sweet, high-pitched voice. “You are quite a large group, I hope you don’t mind sharing. We are quite a small establishment.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Sylvain purrs, wagging his eyebrows in exaggeration until Felix hits him over the head.

The woman giggles at him. “ My name is Mercedes. It is so good to meet you all,” she says, “Please follow me. Is this your first visit to a club such as ours?” Most of the others start excitedly chatting with Mercedes as they’re filing through the doors, but Lorenz decides to hang back a little. If he really wants to deliver on useful info, he should do his best to look around, he reasons.

The floor space of the Holy Kingdom is actually quite a lot bigger than that of the Crimson Flower. Additionally, it seems that while there don’t seem to be more hostesses, they’re more comfortable with entertaining multiple guests at the same time. Walking through the hall. Just walking through the hall, Lorenz counts seven hostesses including Mercedes, one woman with frankly frightful shadows under her eyes he would never peg as a hostess and a petit woman with a capable aura that could potentially be the manager.

“If you would be so kind as to wait here,” Mercedes tells them and points out a bona fide waiting area with plush red seats and hostess menus. “You may already order drinks if you like!”

“I’ve prepared a list of questions,” Ferdinand mock-whispers, seeing as it’s actually pretty loud in the club, “There are some things we should absolutely ask each woman working here to maximise—”

“Aah, maximise schmacksimise,” Caspar interrupts him, “This is our job, we know how to hold conversations!”

“Caspar,” Lorenz hisses, “Would you take care not to expose us immediately, please!”

In the end, as so often, the feeling of hoarding a group of well-dressed kindergarteners outweighs whatever grand plan for espionage Ferdinand might have had. It’s an expensive tactic, but they mingle, each picking a hostess before wandering over to meet the next or have their colleague introduce them. Before long, Lorenz is sitting in the waiting area all by himself. He watches as Caspar compares the size of his biceps with that of an equally loud redhead, and Dedue and Mercedes study recipes on each other’s phones. He wanders by their booths, each of them equipped with a curtain that can be drawn for privacy, and listens to Ashe and a small girl who wears what has to be a white wig exchange novel recommendations. Near their booth, Sylvain and Felix have just saved a hostess from tripping over her own two feet and spilling drinks everywhere – she’s apologising so profusely Felix is throwing Sylvain pleading looks. Ferdinand is even talking to two women.

Lorenz could mingle. It looks like everyone is having fun, and he wonders if that’s why many loyal customers at hostess bars are hosts themselves – when else would they talk to someone, and where else would they be able to indulge in an atmosphere they’re so intimately familiar with? Lorenz sighs and begins to take a few notes on his phone – about the décor, the club size, everyone’s behaviour. He might as well.

“Is there really no one here who tickles your fancy?”

Lorenz looks up. Before him stands a woman with shockingly bright pink hair, standing steady on tall heels. She is dressed somewhat provocatively in a tight black dress with a plunging neckline, and among the other women she stands out so much that Lorenz is pretty sure she must be the Holy Kingdom’s number one.

He blinks slowly as she grins at him, casting around for something to say.

“I mean, not even a little bit?” she prods, and giggles when Lorenz opens, then closes his mouth, still at a loss.

“Look, don’t worry,” she tells him, “I know why you’re here.” She plonks herself down next to Lorenz and offers him her hand. “I’m Hilda. Did you find what you were looking for, Lorenz Gloucester?”


End file.
